I know this already. “I have to go.”
“Shit. I’m sorry, I actually called to tell you to have fun. I don’t want to be a shitty friend.”
“You’re not. You never could be.”
“So go have fun.”
I chuckle.
“And call me ASAP with any gossip!” he adds on, making me smile.
“You’re worse than a woman.”
“I know. Love you.”
“Love you.”
After slipping my phone back into my purse, I open the closet door, and walk in. There, hanging between several suits, is the most beautiful red dress I have ever seen. Beneath it on the floor is a pair of matching red pumps.
I touch the dress, feel the silky material, rise up on tip-toe to lift the hanger off the rack. The tags are still on the label, and I don’t recognize the name of the boutique but I do know the Italian designer. I don’t want to think about how much it cost.
I carry it back into the bedroom and walk to the ornate, full length mirror standing in one corner. I hold the dress up to myself. The long, layered skirts fall to mid-calf, and thick straps leave a wholly exposed back. The color is perfect, a deep, rich crimson. I love it.
Laying it on the bed, I walk into the bathroom. It, too, is large, and old-fashioned with a clawfoot tub set in the middle of the room boasting copper fixtures. I plug the drain and turn on the water, adjust the temperature and let it fill up as I wind my hair on top of my head and check out the soaps, shampoos and bath oils. I choose one that smells of jasmine, drop a few droplets into the rapidly filling tub and stand back to watch as I undress. I then climb in, letting the splash of water tickle my toes as I look out the window onto the dark, starry night.
This is why I don’t mind the cold. The skies are clear then and out here, a million stars dot the midnight sky.
Midnight.
Like Sergio’s eyes.
I close mine, and take a deep breath in and slowly sink deeper into the tub as I switch off the water with my foot. The scent of jasmine steams upward and I let myself relax, listening to the drip of the last few drops from the tap.
This weekend is important to Sergio for his mother’s sake. I get the feeling this will be one of the last times they’ll all be together and that she’ll be healthy enough not to be confined to a bed.
I open my eyes and look up at the ceiling, follow the intricate pattern of the crown molding along the edges, around the light fixture. It’s a mini-chandelier. I have to smile, shaking my head,wondering just how much money the Benedetti family has. It’s a kind of wealth I don’t think I can grasp.
But then I think of how they earn that money.
That thought sobers me. Reminds me where I am. And with whom.
I shouldn’t get too comfortable. I can’t forget what the last few days have brought. What it means for me. What Sergio Benedetti loving me means. Because he’s right, I did walk into this—eyes wide open. And I’m not naïve enough to think Sergio’s hands are clean.
I push those thoughts away and pull the plug on the drain. Water pours off me as I stand, grab a thick towel off the stack nearby and wrap myself up. I walk to the mirror, glance at my reflection, wonder how I got here, wonder how much I’m willing to ignore to be here.
Wonder who I am.
I’m dressedbut barefoot and sitting on the floor in front of the mirror braiding my hair when Sergio walks in a little before nine. I meet his gaze in the mirror, but my smile falters. He looks strange, like he’s got something on his mind, and in his hand, he’s holding a tumbler of whiskey. He closes the door, stands just inside and watches me as he takes a sip of his drink and I wonder if it’s his first. It doesn’t look like it.
“Hey,” I say quietly, returning my attention to braiding my hair, feeling my fingers disappear in the thick mass as I create a long, intricate pattern.
Sergio moves, he pulls a chair up behind me and sits, takes another sip of his drink before setting it down. His legs are on either side of my shoulders.
“Okay?” I ask.
He nods. “You look good.”
I finish the braid, but I don’t get a chance to tie the end of it together before he puts his hands on the thick straps of the dress and pushes them off my shoulders. I look at myself, at the dress as it slips down to my waist. Look at my bared breasts. At how the braid is already beginning to unravel.
